“I heard St. Nazaire this morning,” said Zumwald. St. Nazaire was the seaport in occupied France where the Kriegsmarine kept its U-boat pens. “Just another rumor.”
“You must know something,” Bueller said.
Zumwald hesitated. He had been working the radio almost non-stop since U-351 had begun this crazy race across the Atlantic. Message after message pouring in from headquarters. Something was going on. The captain went around with a grim face all day. He had overheard something about a rendezvous with one of their destroyers. Rumors were one thing, but Zumwald knew better than to give voice to what he had seen and heard as part of his duties. All he said was, “Go back to your book.”
A drop of water fell from the bulkhead and ran down the face of the Jack of Spades, as if he were crying. Tears of boredom? Zumwald didn’t take it as a good omen. His whole blanket was damp from dripping condensation because the constant thrumming of the big diesel engines shook the moisture loose from the bulkhead. Africa or France would be fine with him, so long as he got to set foot on dry land again. That was one reason he liked Westerns so much — cowboys lived in a world of prairie and heat and dust. No cold ocean for them. Zumwald had begun to fear that his last sight in this world would be the black depths of the Atlantic opening to swallow him. He tried not to think about it too much — it was a good way to go crazy on a submarine.
“How about a game of cards?” he asked.
Bueller didn’t look up from his cowboy novel. “Not a chance in hell,” he drawled in English, attempting to mimic a cowboy but mangling it in his thick Dresden accent. Bueller could read English well enough, but his pronunciation left something to be desired. Zumwald shook his head, amused, then repeated the phrase in a more convincing American twang.
“Pretty good,” Bueller said.
“My father owned a small movie theater in Stuttgart,” Zumwald explained. “I used to watch a lot of American movies, when they were still allowed.”
Aside from some of the officers, Zumwald and Bueller were the only crew members who spoke English. They also shared an affinity for American Westerns, which technically were verboten. So was speaking English. On land he would have hidden the novels away. But U-351 was a world unto itself.
He had just settled down one more on his damp blankets when the klaxon sounded calling all hands to their stations.
“Scheiss,” cried Bueller, stuffing the paperback under his mattress where it wouldn’t be seen. “I was just getting to the good part.”
Half-dressed, they both rolled out of their bunks and raced to their stations. Bueller’s place was at the forward torpedo tube. Zumwald ran for his radio alcove, heart pounding. At least Bueller could shoot at something, Zumwald thought; all he could do was listen.
The bridge was alive with activity. Men sat or stood intently at the controls and gauges while the officers barked orders relayed by the captain, who stood with his eye pressed to the periscope. Seawater ran down from the imperfectly fitted gasket that allowed the periscope to be raised or lowered. The water chilled the air, smelling strongly of salt and fish. The other radio operator was already in place, so Zumwald stood for a moment, uncertain what to do.
“Zumwald!” the kapitanleutnant shouted. “Go topside and help our passenger come aboard.”
If he’d had time, Zumwald might have wondered why U-351 was stopping somewhere in the north Atlantic to take on a passenger. He had never heard of such a thing. But someone handed him a slicker and the next thing he knew he was scrambling up the ladder inside the conning tower. The hatch was open to the night sky and Zumwald could see stars overhead. He popped out, feeling the strange sensation of wind against his face. When was the last time he had smelled fresh air? But this wind had a wintry edge, blowing across empty miles of ocean. Inside the slicker, Zumwald shivered. Just his luck to be sent topside on a night like this.
He strained to see around him in the darkness. Two figures stood on the deck, ready with lines in their hands. Hecht manned the machine gun on the conning tower, staring out to sea. What were they all looking at?
And then he saw it. A dark shape towered above them, perhaps two hundred meters away. Even in the starlight he could make out the ship’s massive guns. Zumwald’s breath stopped and his heart hammered in his chest. Battleship. One volley from those guns and U-351 would go straight to the bottom.
“It’s one of ours,” Hecht said under his breath, as if to reassure himself. “Kriegsmarine.”
A hand swatted Zumwald on the back so hard it stung. The first mate had come out of the hatch. “You! Get down there and help those men. Hecht, keep your fucking finger off the trigger. That’s one of our boats.”
Zumwald half-climbed, half-fell down the ladder to the deck. He felt it heave and bob under him in the rough seas, so different from being in the belly of the submarine. He joined the two others. “When the boat comes alongside, we’ll throw them our two lines,” the man said. “You be ready to help.”
“What boat?”
“Can’t you see? It’s coming now.”
Zumwald’s eyes strained into the darkness. There. He could just see the foam breaking against the bow of a small boat running toward the submarine. The boat slipped down into the trough between two waves and was gone, swallowed by the sea, then reappeared seconds later, even closer to U-351.
Then the boat was alongside. The two men threw their lines and hands stretched out to catch them. They pulled the lines tight but the small boat still bounced wildly against the side of the submarine, like a bobbing cork. A figure stood up. Zumwald could see at once that if the man lost his balance for a moment he would be mashed between the boat and the submarine, or else fall into the dark waves. The man got a foothold on the bow of the boat and leapt.
Zumwald was ready to catch him but the man brushed past, landing easily on the tossing deck. “Here!” someone shouted and Zumwald had just enough time to look up before a sea bag came hurtling at him from the boat. The force of it knocked him down and he sprawled on the wet deck.
“Bring it,” said the new arrival, who was already starting toward the conning tower. He had a long bundle strapped to his back. For a moment, Zumwald had the odd thought that it must be a pair of snow skis. What sense did that make? He looked again and decided it must be a weapon of some sort.
Their passenger delivered, the boat crew cast off and returned toward the battleship. The sailors coiled their lines. Hecht was busy putting the cover back on the machine gun. Zumwald struggled along under the weight of the sea bag, thinking that he would much rather be sitting in front of the radio at the moment.
“Hurry it up, Zumwald!” The kapitanleutnant waved at him in annoyance. “We’re sitting ducks out here.”
Up on the conning tower, Zumwald gave a shout of warning, then dropped the sea bag to the bridge below. The first mate followed him down the ladder, pausing long enough to pull the hatch shut and seal it. The captain was already giving orders to dive.
Zumwald missed the last two rungs and landed in a heap in the middle of the bridge. Annoyed, the first mate practically kicked Zumwald out of the way as he descended right behind him.
“Take us down ten meters,” the captain ordered. “Then turn the boat around and get us out of here. We will chart a new course directly.”